


Spoons

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Friendship/Love, Ice Cream Parlors, M/M, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:51:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2146269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Earl."</p><p>"I-- Sorry?"</p><p>"That's... That's my name. Not-- um. What you said before. That is, I-- I want to be called Earl. From now on. If... If you could, please."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoons

**A/N:** This isn't exactly a headcanon-- just a thought that occurred to me the other day when pondering the canon diversity of Night Vale in combination with potential-future-Earl-voice. 

**Warnings:** Cecearl friendship. Written on my phone in under an hour. Transgendered character.

**XXX**

"Earl."

"I-- Sorry?" 

"That's... That's my name. Not-- um. What you said before. That is, I-- I want to be called Earl. From now on. If... If you could, please." 

The redhead twirls a shorn curl around a slender finger, a few scattered freckles disappearing in the dark pits of a deeply dimpled frown. From across the sticky parlor table, Cecil mirrors that frown, head cocked as he stares openly at his best friend. She-- well, he thought she had been a she, but maybe not?-- tugs again at recently cropped hair, leaning awkwardly closer. Beneath the hem of her-- his?-- _Earl's_ shirt, Cecil (accidentally) notices a training bra that doesn't really look much like a bra at all, training or otherwise. Unless that training involves having the flattest chest possible, he supposes, since the accessory isn't 'supporting' what's there so much as it is 'squishing' it.

Hmm.

"Earl," the boy echoes musingly, lips and tongue carefully curled around the name. He then says it again, with delicacy, as if taste-testing some new candy flavor. "Eaaaaarl... Earl, Earl, Earl. Early? Earlllll."

With each new inflection and bizarrely intoned reprise, Earl's fidgets becomes more and more noticeable. Sneakered feet kick against stained linoleum; fingertips drum against the soda-smeared countertop. Cecil's face betrays little more than bemusement as he murmurs to himself, forcing Earl to wait for his reaction to a pronouncement so dire that a trip to the White Sand Ice Cream Shop had been insisted upon. The sundae between them has begun to sag, collapsing beneath the weight of scrutiny and chocolate chips. Earl has started to feel sick for completely different reasons than he might usually when sitting in front of a huge bowl of dairy.

"Earl. Eeeeearl."

"Um... Cecil..."

A seeded dollop of strawberry sauce melts down a scoop of black sesame ice cream. Earl swallows thickly, visibly steels himself, and says, "My scout leader is talking to your scoutmaster. They said I can join the Night Vale faction of the Boy Scouts if I want. Would that... Would you be okay with that?"

"Ear-- eh?"

Cecil pauses in his senseless rambles, nibbling the tip of a plastic spoon. He considers-- both the obvious implications of this announcement, and the implied ones. Like the reporter he is destined to be, Cecil mentally pulls together years' worth of evidence, threading separate strands together into something beautiful and simple and complete. Then, like the thirteen year old he currently is, he pulls a face: light on beauty, but heavy on sarcasm.

"Woah. Yeah," he then drones, rolling his eyes so exuberantly that they run the risk of rolling right out of his head. "Because _obviously_ I hate spending time with you. God, Earl."

"I-- huh?" Earl blinks, taken aback by-- well, the normality of the reaction. Then he makes a face of his own, objecting, "No, that's-- that's not what I--"

"Then what, Earl? What did you mean, Earl?" Cecil drawls, grinning his smarmiest grin as he does so. As the teen's smile elongates, so do his vowels; the redhead's frown, in turn, becomes thinner and more pronounced. With mounting annoyance, Earl jabs at his friend with the sharpest end of his spoon, prodding dents into those tanned cheeks. 

"Congratulations, you've made your point. You're smart enough to memorize one name without the help of your Big Boy Notebook. Good job. Now stop using it every sentence-- you're starting to sound like a serial killer." Earl offers a mocking shudder. Cecil offers simple mockery.

"Aww, what is it, Earl? Afraid I'm gonna wear out your brand new name?"

"No, I'm afraid I'm gonna stab out your eye in irritation, then be banned from the ice cream shop."

The other rears instinctively back, caught somewhere between amused, impressed, and startled. 

"Wow, _now_ who sounds like a serial killer?" he comments, batting away the utensil still prodding at his face. "Is that how you chose 'Earl' then? You picked through baby books looking for the red-neckest, chain-saw-massacre-iest name you could find?"

"Hmm, no, but 'Earl Harlan' _does_ have a serial killer ring to it, doesn't it?" Earl contends, trying and failing to remain somber as a bubble of genuine laughter floats up from the depths of a recently-roiling stomach. It tickles the corners of his mouth, coloring him pink as his scowl gains sweetness. He flushes all the brighter when Cecil huffs and corrects:

"It has an _awesome_ ring to it. Oh! But _speaking_ of serial killers..."

And that is, in fact, what Cecil and Earl speak of for the rest of the day.


End file.
